


Pieces Of Blue

by fridaysblues (taemin)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 22:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/fridaysblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There hasn't been a documented case of refusing your match since the system came into use. The computer's always spot on. Nobody's ever complained. Nobody questions the validity anymore—they trust that the scientists have gotten this one right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces Of Blue

In retrospect, someone should have examined the repercussions of matchmaking science before the Center for Soul Matching became the empire that it did. Nearly two centuries ago it was a quaint matchmaking service based on—what? some lousy algorithm, a randomizer, some stoned programmer sitting in a darkened room with a cheese sandwich sweltering from the heat, websites that charged you $19.95USD a month to trawl the depths of humanity yourself, hoping to catch a glimmer of _something_. Sometimes it got it right. Mostly it didn't. In those days, love was one of those unquantifiable mysteries.

Since then, they've cracked the technology.

Scientists capitalized on this idea—the notion that people didn't want to deal with heartbreak anymore. _"Too distracting,"_ they decided, _"takes away from workplace productivity and life expectancies."_ It just made sense: develop a system that eliminates all the stress of uncertainty.

The way it works is as follows: on your twentieth birthday, you report to a screening center for an analysis of your personality and expected life trajectory. Sometimes the computer will spit out a follow-up appointment right away: _Congratulations! You've been matched!_ in crisp typeface, assistants crowding in the room to applaud the occasion. Otherwise: _No match found! Come back in thirty days._ People are experiencing things and changing the third or the five-hundred-and-third answer on their questionnaire because they've adjusted their worldview. New people are turning twenty every day. The computer's taking care of it. The Center will take care of you.

Everyone, eventually, meets their soulmate.

You grow up imagining every possibility. It's exciting, this not knowing—you spend hours with your friends talking about The One, relieved that you don't have to spend your life wandering the earth looking for someone to pull into bed with you at night just to keep you warm. _I don't know how they didn't go crazy,_ you wonder, _I can't imagine going through life not knowing._

There's still dating; even sex, occasionally, but it's not serious. It can't be. With the 13 billion residents on the planet, it's nearly impossible to grow up in the same time zone as your soul mate, let alone next door. Once you're matched, all of that is over: you've been promised. It's as good as a proposal. The deal is sealed.

There hasn't been a documented case of refusing your match since the system came into use. The computer's always spot on. Nobody's ever complained. Nobody questions the validity anymore—they trust that the scientists have gotten this one right.

☆☆☆

Chanyeol has always been a romantic. Ever since he was young and stumbled across one of the old, illicit books his mother kept under the mattress—forbidden, contraband, thought to be long gone, but family relics still turn up occasionally, tucked away in locked boxes in attics, antiques, reminders of how it used to be (at least, until they're confiscated). Love was portrayed as desperate, then: you were lucky to receive it. Nowadays, everyone gets to be lucky. Everyone is equal. But he believes in something stronger, believes in serendipity and fate and the power of desire. 

In these books, Chanyeol sees choice. He sees conflict and chaos, too, but he sees the ability to shape your life around someone. He thinks about who his soulmate will be and knows that if it were one of these films, it'd be his next door neighbor or the shy girl in the drama club he's never had the courage to talk to. It'd be someone beautiful, someone unexpected. Someone right under his nose, too close to see until it's too late and they're careening into his life, laughing the whole way. 

So despite the futility of the exercise, Chanyeol dates. Her name is Lee Heejin and she's beautiful. He's wistful sometimes, walking home with her, when he looks out of the corner of his eye and sees the peaceful curves of her face, tilted to catch the dying light of the early evening. If she were anywhere else, if he were anywhere else, he might be allowed to keep her, instead of knowing that she's promised to someone else, that someone else is waiting patiently for her, just like someone's waiting patiently for him. It drives him crazy because he thinks he might actually love her, love her in the way it's described in those books: the longing when she's not around, the curl in the pit of his stomach when she is, the electrified touches. 

He tells her this, once, when they're in the back of his car, pulled down some deserted road. It's dark. He's got the radio switched on, the green-blue glow of the dashboard illuminating their naked bodies as they move together against the back seat. 

"Wish it was you," he murmurs into her ear, pushing two fingers inside of her. Her spine rises into a taut arch, a drawn slingshot, and she cries softly, a shudder rippling under her skin. Her breasts are small, at least under Chanyeol's hands, but he loves them just the same; showering the smooth skin with dutiful attention, the pink nubs of her nipples taut under the flick of his tongue. He kneels above her, palm balanced against her pubic bone as his fingers explore greedily for her release. 

"It won't be," she breathes into his mouth. "Stop thinking like that." 

He pulls her closer, artfully thumbs her clit until her thigh muscles quiver with exertion. He knows she's right, but he hopes. 

He's never said it aloud before, but it's the eve of his twentieth birthday and he's just aching to continue with her. He wants to wake up next to her in the morning and go to The Center. He wants to pass his screening the first time, see her name printed out on that little card he's always heard about, the card he's been eager to receive since his parents first sat him down and talked to him about what the future held. Then he wants go home to her. He doesn't want things to change. He wants to take her out for dinners and admire those long legs of hers under the table, punctuated by the black patent leather pumps she always wears when they go somewhere nice. He wants a family with her, a dog, maybe. A future. Together. 

She comes with a whimper, wet and sticky against his fingers, and kisses the sweat from his forehead, a pensive look in her eyes. 

☆☆☆

Even though the Center's been established for generations now, rumors persist. There are theories that you can pinpoint the location of your soul mate using complicated algorithms and your social security number, but these are just speculation, rumors perpetuated by impatient lovers. 

Chanyeol wakes up that morning feeling weak with anticipation, pulls on a sweater and brushes his teeth, can barely stomach breakfast. He opts for chamomile tea instead, a brimming travel mug that rattles anxiously in the cup holder of his junky car as he halves the speed limit the entire way to the local Center just to stretch the time. He fills out a mountain of paperwork, dozens of pages with questions on his field of study in university (a degree in mathematics), his ideal partner (he wishes they'd allowed for him to fill in his own answers for this one). Other things, too—his blood type, his family history on both sides, coupled with seemingly innocuous things like the last movie he'd seen in theaters. 

It's not her. 

It's not anyone. 

_No Match Found! Come back in thirty days._

The assistant looks at him and smiles encouragingly. "That's pretty normal for your first time. Maybe next month." He nods, slips the card in his back pocket, lingers a moment at the reception desk to schedule next month's screening. The tea's gone cold when he settles back into the seat of his car. He slams the back of his head against the headrest a few times, tears threatening as he chokes them back and tells himself it doesn't mean it's over, not yet. 

"It wasn't you," he tells her sadly when he sees her later that day. She's laden with textbooks on the Center (she's studying to work there when she graduates from university) and he regards them with a glum contempt, wishing they held the answers to the questions he wants to ask. 

She holds his hand, squeezing it a little. She doesn't let their fingers interlock and that's how he knows everything's changed forever. "I knew it wouldn't be." 

They stop seeing each other shortly after that. 

"It's not going to be you. You don't belong to me," she says. There are (mostly) no hard feelings, hardly any tears (and of those, they're mostly his). As much as he'd fantasized differently, they both knew this day would come. 

Chanyeol spends his newfound spare time fantasizing about what she's like. He gives her a face, a body, a personality. Interests. Career goals. But he can't stop thinking of Heejin when he comes fiercely into his palm. When he closes his eyes, it's her. 

 

☆☆☆

 

Every month for four years, Chanyeol goes to the center. He sees Heejin each visit, first when she starts as an intern, then later when she's placed for permanent employment. She's matched with her soulmate around graduation, some Japanese scientist who makes her laugh until she's doubled over, braid swinging, hands clasped in delight. She's happy, happier than Chanyeol's ever seen her before. The scientist moves to Seoul and throws himself into learning the language and marvels at the work she's doing at the Center, joins the staff, becomes part of the team researching grief (science has love figured out, but it's still got a lot of work to do before it conquers death). Chanyeol sees her sometimes during his visits and spends the rest of his appointment sucking air angrily through his teeth, every cell in his body radiating jealousy as he goes back into the same examination room he goes into every month, his sleeves already rolled up (he's got the routine down at this point, has been there longer than some of the employees who assist him, their eyes kind but sympathetic as they look over his paperwork and see that this is his forty-eighth visit and _still no match_ ). 

On his forty-ninth visit, he's resigned himself to the idea that it's a waste of time. He gets up before the computer's even finished processing, buttoning his jacket up to his chin. "Same time next month?" he says cheerfully to Heejin, who'd slipped the assistant some money to let her handle this appointment herself so they'd have a chance to chat and catch up. Chanyeol really wishes she hadn't. He doesn't want her to see him like this. 

"It's not finished, yet." 

He shrugs, flashing her an easy grin. "I've done this a few times before." 

"Chanyeol…" 

"How's Toma?" 

Her eyes crinkle happily at the mention of his name, face pinking. "He's—you'd like him, you should come over for dinner, maybe—" 

The computer splutters to life, a high whine cutting off her invitation (much to Chanyeol's relief). Her hand hesitates as she reaches over, eyes softening. 

"Well. Maybe we'll have to set dinner for four." She holds up the card, lower lip tucking itself under her top teeth. She always used to do that when she was trying to conceal her enthusiasm. "Congratulations. Guess I'll be seeing you sooner than next month." 

Chanyeol makes the follow-up appointment with the receptionist who lights up when she sees his card. He's been coming here long enough that she knows him by first and last name, recognizes that he's working on a graduate degree. She knows his mother's name and the litany of movies he's seen over the past few years; she's read the paperwork enough that she could help him fill it out, if that were allowed. 

Not that the information's useful anymore: he's been Matched. 

When he finally makes it outside, his trembling knees give out on him and he sinks to the curb, card still clutched in his hand. He's numb with shock; _it's finally happened, he finally has a match._ Excitement will come later, at two o'clock in the morning when wakes up from a dead sleep to roll over, sheets tangled around his legs, realizing he won't have to sleep alone for much longer. 

☆☆☆

Huang Zitao is not who Chanyeol expects to be waiting for him when he shows up at the Center. He's running late today from a lecture that ran twenty minutes over and doesn't spot him until he's already pulling his glasses off of his face before the lenses fog up from the warm air of the waiting room. The eyeliner, the earrings, the shy smile—they're on point, to be sure—but there's no avoiding the fact that Huang Zitao is a man. 

Fuck. Not even a man. He's a boy. Barely. Wide-eyed and naive, fingers drumming on his knees. He's probably never been with anybody, Chanyeol thinks, looking him up and down. Not a man _or_ a woman. 

Chanyeol's taken aback. Anger will come later, frustration. He's not sure who's been lying to him: the Center, or himself. 

"Park Chanyeol?" Zitao's voice is soft, speech accented. He's not a native. 

Chanyeol blinks, not quite catching the implication. "How do you know my name?" 

Tao hands him a card. "I'm Huang Zitao. Tao." 

He stares down at his hands, the tiny print swimming into focus as he frowns. "There must be a mistake." 

Tao shifts uncomfortably. "I'm sorry?" 

"You're a man." 

"Yes." 

"I'm a man." 

He smirks, cheek dimpling. "Yes." 

"You're not my soulmate. You can't be." 

"The Center begs to differ." He offers Chanyeol a tight-lipped smile, eyes clouding with disappointment. "This isn't how I imagined things would go, although I guess you're feeling the same way right now." 

"I—can you excuse me?" 

Heejin's in her office when he storms down the long corridor and pushes it open without knocking. She looks up in surprise, biscotti dangling from her mouth in a way that _should_ be unattractive but it just isn't, because nothing's unattractive about her. He contemplates fucking her on the desk, right there with the door wide open, just to prove that Tao is a mistake. 

He snaps out of it when she coughs crumbs into her open palm, throat barking as she struggles to breathe. "Christ. Chanyeol." 

"You knew? I mean, you've known since the printout. Since my appointment. You've known this whole fucking time and you couldn't give me a heads up?" 

Remorse skitters across her normally placid face. "Yes, I knew. I can't tell you that, Chanyeol, there's protocol—" 

"Fuck protocol, Heejin. You already shot that to hell when you switched out to take me in the first place." His head swivels. "Wait. You knew even before, didn't you?" 

She bows her head and he watches the white expanse of her neck as her hair falls forward, wants to reach out and attach his mouth to it, leave a trail of angry-looking hickeys down her collarbone, leave his mark on her skin, claim her again. 

"When was Tao's appointment?" 

"You shouldn't be in here," she says, voice shaking. "We'll talk later, Chanyeol. When you're—when you've calmed down." 

There's a man at the door—probably Toma, Chanyeol realizes, as a hand clamps on his upper arm to pull him backwards. "Heejin—there's been a mix-up—it was supposed to be you." 

"The Center doesn't make mistakes," she says like she's reciting lines off a page, mouth drawn into a thin line. Her eyes flicker to the man who's pulling Chanyeol away, apologies written over her face in a way that makes Chanyeol feel very small, very ashamed. He knows shouldn't be here. 

He sits through the introductory meeting but his answers are terse, his knee jiggling anxiously, eyes darting towards the door. The man who'd extricated him from Heejin's office earlier—Chanyeol'd been right to assume it was Toma—looks back and forth between Zitao and Chanyeol, puzzled. 

"Is there—is there a problem?" 

"I think he was expecting a two car garage," Zitao says slyly. 

"I have no idea what that even means," Chanyeol snaps, even though he has a pretty good idea. He puts his elbows on his knees and hunches into himself. "Look. I'm not—there's been a misunderstanding—maybe I bubbled in something wrong, maybe I skipped an answer I shouldn't have, but—" 

"—not according to the printout. Everything appears to be in order. You've given the same answers forty-nine times in a row—" Tao raises his eyebrows at this and Chanyeol narrowly suppresses the urge to sock him in the jaw, "—so I'm not sure what else there is to do but go home and give it a shot." Toma smiles, his eyes narrowing to cheerful crescents. "I assure you, everything's in order here." 

Chanyeol sits, quietly seething, as Toma gathers his paperwork and exits the room. He doesn't even have a chance to react before Tao's collecting his things to stand at Chanyeol's shoulder, right hand patiently folded over the left, finger still tapping. 

"What do you think you're doing?" 

"You heard what he said. I'm giving it a shot." 

Chanyeol scoffs so hard he nearly spits in Tao's face. "You've got to be kidding me right now. You're not coming back home with me." 

"Where else am I going to go?" Tao's fingers skirt along the jut of Chanyeol's wrist and he jerks back at the unwelcome contact. 

"Why is that my problem?" 

"Have _you_ ever heard of the Center making a mistake before?" Tao reminds him. "What makes you think you know better?" 

_Because I've been in love,_ Chanyeol thinks, gritting his teeth. _I know what that feels like. This is not it._ "I'm going to have to talk to someone about it. I'll—I'll get this fixed. This isn't right." 

"Nothing's going to change today," Tao looks him up and down, expression tinged with disdain. "It's going to take some time, and that's _if_ there's even anything that anyone can do. What am I supposed to do until you _figure things out_? Camp out here in the waiting room? My stuff's in my car. I'd—I'd expected this to go a little more smoothly." He scuffs his boot against the carpet forlornly. "This isn't anything like how it goes in the movies." 

Chanyeol's at a loss. It's the movie comment that sells him on the idea, at least for a few days, thinking back to those books he used to read huddled under covers, books that gave him expectations that had been summarily dashed about twenty minutes ago. He agrees to let Tao come home with him, if only until he figures out a way to dissolve the match. "Don't get too comfortable," he warns, gesturing at the couch. "This is temporary." 

Tao seems amiable to the situation, although his lips quirk upward when Chanyeol asserts the transient nature of their match. 

"You really think the computer got it wrong?" He drops his his bags at the door and belly flops on the couch like he's always been there. "I bet I'm still here in a month." He puts his hands behind his head. "I think you'll like me. I'm a very likable guy." 

Chanyeol cringes. 

☆☆☆

So, he's right. Mostly about the fact that he's still on Chanyeol's couch, a month later—never once complaining about his back, although Chanyeol wonders sometimes if he's ever uncomfortable as he notices hands slipping up the back of his shirt to knead his own muscles when he thinks he's not being watched. But he's also not wrong about the likable thing. He's cheerful, friendly, always keeps the place meticulous, makes breakfast on the rare occasions he wakes up before Chanyeol's due to be in lecture. 

On the whole, he's great. In another life, he'd be a decent roommate. He's just— _not_ someone Chanyeol sees himself falling in love with. Ever. 

Huang Zitao's impossibly unlike him: two years of university making shit grades before he dropped out to pursue a rapping career that went nowhere, comfortable with working in a record store with no hope for upward mobility, drinks a lot of black coffee, wears a lot of makeup, listens to music Chanyeol's never heard of. He has friends that call at strange hours and doesn't work on Fridays just because he doesn't feel like it. He sits too close to Chanyeol on the couch and he's gradually taken over an entire half of the bathroom sink with various toiletries. He smiles _constantly._ Sometimes he tags along to go the store, hand fumbling against Chanyeol's in the street before he's slapped away. 

"Don't touch me in public. Don't touch me _ever_." 

He still smiles, even when Chanyeol smacks him hard enough to leave a handprint across his knuckles. 

It's annoying. It grates on him to have to share a space with this—this _guy_ who's constantly fighting for his attention when he'd much rather ignore him to study or grade papers or do _basically anything else_. It's been weeks and he still calls the Center daily, talks to Heejin: _"You've gotta help me. You've got to get me reassigned. There's another match out there—the right match. He can't possibly be my soulmate."_

Every time, she sighs. "Have you tried, Chanyeol? Have you tried talking to him? Getting to know him?" 

"What's there to know?" 

"I've been looking into it. It's unprecedented. Nobody's ever requested a second match before, not—you know, not without the first one _dying_." She pauses for a moment and he listens to the steady rise and fall of her breaths before she adds, "And don't you fucking dare kill him, he's a sweet kid." 

" _Heejin_." 

"I know, I know—I just felt like I had to say it." Her voice gets quiet. "Look. Just—try—for me, will you?" 

He looks at Tao out of the corner of his eye. He's sprawled out on the floor in an ungainly pose, working through a yoga routine with his legs over his head. _He shouldn't be able to bend his body into the shapes he does,_ Chanyeol thinks, rolling his eyes. 

"Just—keep looking for me, will you? There's got to be a note somewhere, an override. _Something_." 

Tao rolls onto his knees as Chanyeol hangs up the phone and throws it onto the table. "Still nothing?" Stinging beads of sweat trickle down his forehead and he blinks them away. "Maybe they'll figure it out by tomorrow." 

"Do you ever shut _up?_ That was a private phone conversation." 

"Can't be terribly private if you're discussing me from ten feet away," Tao points out. Chanyeol wants to kill him, remembers Heejin's warning, and decides better of it. He's jerking off in the shower later, lips parted over his bared teeth, eyes clenched shut, when there's an unfamiliar pair of hands combing through his hair, tracing the line of his body, cupping his balls, slipping a hand over his own, shadowing the uneven strokes with light fingertips. 

He moans involuntarily. He's thinking about her again—he can't help it. It's been so long and the brush of fingers against his inner thigh wrecks him. He's in the backseat of his car, again, radio playing low in the background, a wide pair of eyes staring up at him in the dark. The next thing he knows, Tao's gripping bruises into the hollow of his hips, mouth warm and insistent on his cock. 

Tao gives head the same way he moves: fluidly, gracefully; pays meticulous attention to detail, curls his tongue around the head and takes in as much length as he can down his smooth throat. Chanyeol wants to pull back, but he just can't, because he hasn't stuck his dick _anywhere_ in years. And, well— 

_It's roughly the same when I close my eyes,_ Chanyeol thinks. 

He comes embarrassingly quickly, face burning hot with shame as Tao stands, wipes the water out of his eyes, tries to pull him close. Chanyeol resists. 

"Don't." His throat clenches guiltily. 

"You're not going to return the favor?" Tao's voice is low, even. He presses Chanyeol's hand against his dick like he's passing a baton. Chanyeol flinches but doesn't pull away. Tao leans forward, flicks his tongue experimentally over his throat. Chanyeol gives a half-hearted tug in response. 

Tao's hands envelop his, guiding them in slow easy twists from the base to the tip, slick with pre-come. A little bolder, Chanyeol thumbs the slit and Tao hums in appreciation against his adam's apple. Chanyeol swallows tightly, wishing he didn't notice the way Tao's shoulders graze against his, hipbones bumping. Heejin had been a fairly petite woman, a good six inches shorter—Tao's body feels all wrong against his chest, skin tacky with moisture, pulling uncomfortably as they press together. 

Not to mention the unfamiliar dick in his hand right now. 

Tao sticks his fingers in his mouth and sucks deliberately. A string of saliva trails from his lower lip to his index finger when he reaches behind himself with one hand, the other still holding tight to Chanyeol's as he pushes into his asshole with a sharp inhale, head lolling forward to drop against Chanyeol's collarbone. An obscenely loud moan parts his gritted teeth into the dip where neck and shoulder meet. 

"Can you—just—talk to me, a little?" Tao's breath is hot on his skin. "I'm so close." 

Chanyeol makes a noncommittal noise through his nose. It's getting a little too real for him. 

"Please," Tao begs, almost whining, "just—anything—you don't have to mean it." 

Chanyeol closes his eyes, tongue tracing his lips, thinks about what she used to say to him right after he'd gasped in her ear that he was going to come. His voice is unsure, shakes a little as he intones: "You're so sexy right now." He lowers his mouth, catches Tao's earring gently between his teeth and exhales, "I want you." 

His stomach recoils the minute he says it. What. He'd never said that to her, never dared, knew she'd laugh in his face and shove him away. _You don't get to be the one to do that,_ she'd probably say. 

Tao's breathing becomes uneven, rasping gulps, orgasm crescendoing through his whole body before it settles in his groin. _"Fuck,"_ his head jerks back as his hips push forward and he releases with a shuddering gasp down Chanyeol's thighs. 

The water's gone cold at this point. Chanyeol barely notices, too focused on the curve of Tao's spine as he cups handfuls of water against his legs to clean them off. He doesn't want to know that he can count the vertebrae, bridging away from him like stepping stones down his back. Tao looks up finally, a small smile creeping its way into his twinkling eyes. 

"Thanks." 

"Uh, yeah. Sure thing." 

☆☆☆

Chanyeol doesn't speak to Tao the next day, avoiding the apartment at all costs. He gets a few texts: 

_Where are you? Will you be home soon?_  


What do you want for dinner? :D  


I got hungry waiting for you and made ramyun ^^; I'll make some for you too when you get home! 

He swallows thickly, deleting each one as they arrive in his inbox. He's not ready to take responsibility for his feelings about what happened the night before yet and he doesn't trust himself to act rationally. 

He calls Heejin with the vague idea of telling her what happened but it doesn't last long before he's questioning whether or not they even have that kind of friendship. There's laughter in the background and he doesn't recognize any of the voices. He makes up a reason for calling and hangs up. 

He calls the center again, gets the receptionist this time. She tells him the same things Heejin's always telling him: The Center doesn't make mistakes. He feels almost guilty this time, calling Tao a mistake, because that's not quite it—it's—it's bigger than that. More complicated. Tao's just as trapped as he is, he's just too idealistic to recognize it. _He thinks a future together is possible,_ Chanyeol thinks, remorseful. _He's too hopeful. He doesn't know what it's supposed to feel like._

He wonders when he stopped being a romantic. 

He comes home and Tao's sprawled across Chanyeol's bed, fast asleep and fully clothed, eyes still rimmed in kohl. Chanyeol sighs, wondering whether to move him or sleep on the couch or to just say _fuck it_ and give in to the Center and crawl into bed with him when Tao's eyes flutter open. 

"Mmph. You're home." He yawns, rolling onto his side and patting the edge of the bed. "You must've been really busy today. Have you eaten?" 

"Yeah." 

He studies Chanyeol's face with slow, deliberate blinks before closing his eyes and nodding against the pillow. "You're freaked out about last night." 

"N-no." 

"It was just a little masturbation. Doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to." 

This isn't true for Chanyeol, though, never has been. Sex has always been a Big Deal to him, despite the numerous lectures during health class warning them about the dangers of forming emotional attachments to partners in high school because it could never amount to anything. 

He nods anyway. "I know. It doesn't." 

Tao's smile fades away. 

☆☆☆

Tao comes down with a nasty strain of the flu when the temperature dips below freezing for the first time that winter. Chanyeol lets him take the bedroom for his convalescence and manages to ignore him until he goes a day without seeing Tao or hearing him cough and starts, despite his reticence, to worry. He pushes open the bedroom door and there he is, wearing little other than a sleeveless shirt and a pair of boxers, curled in the fetal position in the corner of the bed. 

"You okay?" he asks. 

Tao nods, brows furrowed. His inky hair's plastered to his forehead with a fine sheen of sweat, his skin cast grey and pallid. 

"You don't look okay." Chanyeol takes a few slow steps into the room. "You need anything?" 

"Stay?" Tao coughs quietly, fingers flexing in midair, reaching out for Chanyeol. He sighs, burying his hands in the back pocket of his jeans and out of Tao's radius. 

"Have you taken anything today?" He pulls the blankets back on the bed with a brusque tug. "There's—I think I've got some medicine in the bathroom." 

"No," Tao croaks. "I don't want to move." 

Chanyeol sighs through his nose and retreats to the medicine cabinet. It's horribly disorganized—most of the things out of date, expired, as he checks the labels, looking for something to help Tao's fever. He alights upon some cough syrup, runs a washcloth under the tap (he belatedly remembers his mother doing the same for him, sponging off the perspiration) and hits the light switch with a cocked elbow. 

Tao hasn't budged since he left. Chanyeol feels his trembling through the mattress as he sits down at the far corner and tosses the bottle over. "Here. Take this. It'll help," he instructs gruffly. 

"Thank you," Tao murmurs. "I'm sorry." 

"You didn't get sick on purpose." 

"No. I'm just. Sorry." He rolls over to face the wall. "Sorry it was me." 

Tao ends up hunched over the toilet, heaving although he'd dried up hours ago. Chanyeol hovers at the door anxiously, flinching every time he hears a retch, until finally he can't take it any longer. Tao looks up, bleary-eyed, as Chanyeol settles in against the bathtub. The porcelain is cool through his shirt, the bath rug scratchy against his legs as he kneels forward to put a tentative hand against Tao's back. 

"Don't," Tao moans, resting his chin against the toilet seat. "I'm fine. You'll catch it." 

Chanyeol reaches up to flush the toilet for him. "I'm going to catch it anyway. You might as well have company." 

Shivering, Tao lowers himself onto his forearms and onto Chanyeol's thigh. Chanyeol's fingers hesitate with uneven jerking motions as they debate the ramifications of any unnecessary contact. 

_I'll allow him this one,_ he thinks, smoothing away the sweat from the back of his neck with a comforting palm, watching the color slowly return to his cheeks. 

The next week it's his turn. He's feverish and drowsy for most of it, but he can't think of a time when he reaches out and doesn't catch hold of Tao's hands, grateful and warm. 

☆☆☆

He starts to ease up on the perimeter of space he requires that Tao respect at all times. He spaces out his calls to Heejin—he's down from everyday to every other day, then once a week: Mondays, right at eight o'clock in the morning, when the center opens for the day (as always, the same answer: _the Center does not make mistakes_ ). He's adjusting—albeit begrudgingly—to this new situation, although he holds out hope it won't be forever. He wants more than tolerance. He wants to fall in love again. 

So it's a surprise when Heejin calls _him_ for the first time in years, her personal number flashing across his phone display, a picture of them when they were together. 

Tao sees her picture and looks slightly hurt. They're eating dinner together—something Tao put together, and Chanyeol grudgingly admits that it's pretty good, despite the fact that he doesn't _want_ to end up cozy and domestic with Huang Zitao. He wants a do-over, or possibly a new soul. 

"I—I should probably answer this," Chanyeol puts down his chopsticks and balances the phone in between his shoulder and ear, thumb flicking at the volume button as low as it would go to try and stop Tao from eavesdropping. "Hello?" 

"Chanyeol." She's sniffling a little bit. She's not hysterical, but she never was the type to get worked up, so even the sniffle sets him on alert. 

Across the table, Tao leans forward slightly, trying to catch the conversation. Chanyeol frowns and cups his hand over his mouth, turns away. 

"What happened?" 

"It's Toma. He's—there was an accident. He's—gone." 

"Shit." His toes curl in horror. "Heejin. Are you—" 

"No," she admits. "I'm—I'll get there. Thank you for asking. Please don't come see me. I don't want anybody around right now, I just want some time to myself." 

"I'm so, so sorry," he says sincerely. It occurs to him that they'd recently celebrated their wedding anniversary. Chanyeol missed the party, mostly because it still upsets him to see Heejin with someone else. There's also a small part of him that just isn't comfortable bringing Tao with him to public places—he doesn't like people knowing that they're supposed to be _together_. It's alright when people don't know they're a match, but—a party full of people that work at the Center, that are intimately acquainted with the struggle—he couldn't bear the thought. Still can't, although he regrets it a little as it enters his mind, then leaves it again. 

"What if we ran away?" she says desperately, sounding completely unlike herself. "I don't want another match. I want you. The machine clearly made a mistake with you. They'll issue him a new match if you disappeared, I'm sure. Let's go somewhere, far away from here." 

He looks across the table at Tao's curlicue of a smile, thinks about the heavy lidded expression on his face when he was ill, and feels a vague sense of dismay. 

"Heejin—I don't know," he says tightly, phone trembling with the force of his grip. She sounds crazed, desperate with grief. He knows her too well to take advantage of her like this, as much as he'd love nothing more than to run away with her. "I—Heejin, I'm so sorry, I don't—" 

"No, I know. That's not right, I'm sorry. I'm just—" Her voice breaks. "I can't help you anymore, Chanyeol. They're transferring me. Away from matchmaking." 

His heart sinks. "Why—was—did I cause this?" 

"No. I'm taking over Toma's spot on the team," she replies. Her voice is back to normal, now: the same even, steady alto he hears in his dreams. 

Chanyeol frowns at this new development. "Wasn't he working on a way to eradicate grief? That's—that's a little dark." 

He can hear her smile on the other end of the line. "I suppose it's a little ironic. They've asked me to take over his research. That no one would understand it better than I would. Not to mention," she clears her throat delicately, "I make an excellent subject to study. A bonus." 

"Jesus." 

"I'm taking some time off. I'll be starting next week, but I'll make sure to put your petition request in front of someone who owes me a favor. That's all I can do, Chanyeol, and I can't even promise he can do anything about it." 

"I—thank you." He's surprised at even in the midst of a deep, painful grief, she thinks of him. He feels a fresh pang of sadness. He misses her, wishes he could pull her into his arms and kiss her temple and tell her everything's going to be alright, that he's here now. That he's never going away. "You'll let me know if there's anything I can do for you?" 

She makes a vague noise of agreement. "I hope things get better for you. You'll figure something out, right?" 

"Right." 

"Be nice to Zitao. He's sweet," she reminds him. "Bye, Chanyeol." 

He hangs up and looks at Tao, who's tilting his head expectantly. Chanyeol doesn't even feel capable of explaining the last half of the conversation, so he doesn't. 

"Heejin. You remember her. From the Center. Husband just died. Toma—you—you met him, once, I think." 

"Oh," Tao says, a solemn expression shading his eyes. If he's upset about the fact that Heejin called Chanyeol, he doesn't show it. "That's so awful. I'm sorry to hear that." 

"She's taking it pretty hard." 

"People usually do." He takes a long drink of water. Chanyeol waits for him to finish. "It's hard to lose your soul mate. Even harder when you're faced with the possibility of another match." His long fingers trace the outline of a heart on the placemat, chin resting idly on his curled knuckles. He doesn't look up. "Loving once is hard enough. The second time? Feels impossible." 

Chanyeol studies his face, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry." He feels like he's had this conversation before, been on the other end of it a thousand times already, with Tao, with Heejin. He's just. _Sorry_. 

"For what?" 

"I don't think I'm your anything." 

Tao shakes the hair from his eyes, smirking lightly at the tabletop. "We don't know anything for sure, yet. Don't jump to conclusions." 

He sounds more confident than Chanyeol feels. 

☆☆☆

Early the next morning, Chanyeol's in the middle of a particularly vivid dream—starring Heejin, again. It's been a few weeks since he's had one of these dreams but she's been on his mind since last night's phone call, the slight weight of her body balanced on his, fingernails digging into his shoulders as she settles herself on top of him, clambers down the length of his body to press her face against the fabric of his sleep shorts. 

He cracks an eye open, sees the shock of black hair. It's not a dream. Tao's really pulled down his sweatpants, head undulating against his lap, tracing the vein that runs down the underside of his dick with a furled tongue. 

"Fuck." 

Chanyeol closes his eyes to rake his fingers through the dark halo and after a moment of deliberation, lets his hips grind deep into Tao's throat, probably harder than is pleasant or necessary. He pauses just long enough to hear Tao snort a shaky exhalation through his nose as he suppresses his gag reflex. He's back at it a split-second later, the slightest graze of his bottom teeth prompting all the hair on Chanyeol's body to stand on end, every nerve under his skin sparking as Tao's mouth coaxes him through an orgasm that feels like it lasts fucking forever. 

Still riding the endorphin high, he pulls Tao's face against his, lips parting against his cheek as he wheezes, "What—the fuck—do you think you're doing?" 

Tao pushes his groin forward and Chanyeol's aware, for the first time, of the foreign erection pressing into his thigh, the one attached to the warm body writhing against him. He seethes, eyes screwed shut as he croaks: "Get out of my fucking room. Now." 

"What the fuck?" Tao sits up. "What's your problem?" 

"You—you're my problem. Get the fuck away from me." 

☆☆☆

Tao's sitting on the couch when Chanyeol finally rises from bed, hours later. He's _pissed_ , foot tapping, hands gripping his upper arms. Chanyeol can sense it but he's not sure he fucking cares—he's just as angry, just as confused. Every time Chanyeol walks past he's met with jerky, mirrored movements, an angry headshake, an irritated snort. 

He can't take it anymore: "What? What the fuck is it?" He drops his shoulder bag against an armchair. "You're pissed at me?" 

"What the fuck was that this morning?" 

"What do you _mean_ what the fuck was that this morning? I should be asking _you_ —" 

"You said my _name_!" Tao cries. 

Chanyeol freezes. "I—what?" 

"You. Said. My name. You called for me." He scrubs at his face, obviously trying to stop himself from crying. "You think I just—I felt so fucking stupid, and you just slammed the fucking door—" 

The phone rings. 

"Well?" Tao snaps. "Get it. Don't let me stop you." 

Chanyeol's livid as he accepts the call, answers through clenched teeth: "Hello?" 

The voice on the other end is lilting, unfamiliar. Also accented. "Park Chanyeol? This is Zhang Yixing, I'm with the Center. I'm sorry for calling so early—I'm a friend of Heejin's. She asked me to look into an audit of your match and a re-screening?" 

"Yes," he says. "Please. It's not working. The computer fucked something up." 

Tao stops in his tracks, spine coiling tensely as he realizes what's being discussed. He doesn't even bother try to hide the fact that he's listening; walks closer, in fact. Chanyeol doesn't much care if he hears: it'll all be over soon, anyway. 

"Well, it took me a while to dig up the original manual, but—I found it. There's a backdoor. We can override it, erase your results and try again. If you'd like, of course." 

"Yes. When?" Chanyeol's tongue wets his lips, ignoring the snide expression on Tao's face. "The sooner the better, really. It's gone on long enough." 

He schedules an appointment for the following day, doesn't bother acknowledging Tao at first as he hangs up the phone and walks straight past him for the door. He hesitates for a moment at the knob, tossing over his shoulder, "We're being rescreened. Tomorrow. I'll be home late. Don't wait up, don't fucking cook anything, just—be out of my sight." 

It almost frightens him how final the sound of the slamming door feels behind his back. 

☆☆☆

He calls Heejin to tell her everything and even though she'd asked him for time to grieve she's the first one to suggest meeting up. He sits nervously at a window table and doesn't rise to kiss her on the cheek when she comes in. Her hair's knotted out of her face and she looks tired. He notices she's not wearing any makeup. 

"How are things?" he asks dutifully. He knows she doesn't want to talk about it for too long. 

"Going through his things is hard," she admits. "I want to keep _everything_ , but there's so much of it." 

"Then keep everything." He shrugs. "There's nothing that says you have to let it all go right now, or ever." 

The waitress drops a few menus on the table between them and bustles away. Heejin pulls one to her face immediately, signalling the end to her interest in the subject. 

"Anyway. How are _you_ doing? I'm surprised you called. You don't do much of that anymore." 

He lets out a slow breath between pursed lips. "I'm okay," he lies. He doesn't know where to begin. 

"Have you heard anything yet? Yixing mentioned he found a loophole that allows for an audit." 

He nods. "They've agreed to dissolve it and reissue numbers. If both parties agree." 

She brightens up. "That's great." Her eyes linger on his face, "Isn't it? Isn't that what you wanted?" 

He nods again, more slowly this time. "It was." 

"Was? Hold on." 

"I just don't _know_ ," he moans, dropping himself pathetically against the tabletop. "I don't get why it comes so easily to everyone else. I'm not good at pretending." 

"Do you think everyone's forcing their feelings? This works, Chanyeol. Let it." 

He drops his forehead against the table with a thud. "This isn't how it was with us," he informs her, voice muffled. "That's what I was expecting. Not—not the urge to _fucking strangle_ him all the time." 

"That's a part of it, sometimes. It's not always _wonderful_ , but you work at it." She puts a hand over his. "About us. What we had. It was never going to be anything other than what it was, Chanyeol. I know you wanted it to be me, but why? What made me so special? Because I was first? What did we ever do that really gripped your heart like this?" 

He's at a loss. She's right. In the rearview mirror, the memories seem golden, but fuzzy: clouds, dissipating into nothing as he reaches for a recollection. 

"You were my best friend. I still think of you that way." She looks up at him, brushing the hair out of his eyes with an arched pinky the way she always used to. "So as your best friend, I'm going to tell you that I'm worried. That you're so caught up in the past that you're hurting him." 

He thinks to Tao sprawled out on the couch, lips pressed into pouts as he sleeps against his bicep. The gentle, unassuming way he settled against Chanyeol's knee on the bathroom floor, hands clutching at his thighs for dear life every time a roll of nausea swept through his system. He thinks about white teeth flashing cheekily as he teases Chanyeol with uninvited touches across his wrists, his hands, the small of his back. He thinks about his throat, his chest, the planes of his body, the stark whites of his eyes against smoky lids. 

"You're smiling right now." 

He shakes his head violently. "I'm not." 

"Can I tell you something?" She waits for his head to incline before she continues. "There are things they don't tell you about your soulmate. Things I'm only figuring out because I work there, not because I've been Matched." 

"What kind of things? It sounds sinister," he says warily. 

"No. Nothing like that, it's just—they don't tell you that being Matched doesn't mean it'll be easy or instantaneous, that you won't have to work. That the screening accounts for chemistry, but the love and the quality thereof is up to you." She takes a deep breath. "People don't know, and so they try to tell themselves that Matching _does_ promise all of these things. At first, I think it's because they don't want to be lonely. Later, though, I think it's sincere. They try because they've shared a life, they've made memories. They don't look past what they have to what might have been." 

He shakes his head. "Love doesn't work like that, Heejin. You can't force it." 

"It's okay. You're not there yet." She offers him a brave smile. "You know what I figured out? I know how the machine does it. It figures out what you're missing. The parts of you that you need. In order to be happy. And it gives it to you." 

"How am I supposed to know what to do?" 

"You already do. You always have." 

"That's not true." 

"You could have showed up at my door at any point before I was Matched and I would have gone with you," she says earnestly. "I would have let you stay. I would have lied. I would have risked whatever punishment came with it. Because you needed me. But you stayed away." 

"No." He looks taken aback. "You never—I thought—" 

"I know. That's how I know. You never fought for me the way you're trying to figure Tao out." She rises to her feet, bows over him to kiss the top of his head the way a mother would. "Give him a chance, Chanyeol." 

"I don't know if I can ever love him," he murmurs softly. "I don't know if I'm capable of it." 

☆☆☆

When he gets home, the lights are off. He trails through the hallways, peering into the bedroom and the bathroom, but they're empty. Tao's not in. His things are, though: folded neatly in his bag at the end of the couch. The sink's been cleared of his belongings. 

Chanyeol wavers between satisfaction and guilt as he sits down next to Tao's bag, fingers toying with the zipper pull. 

The clock is twelve and a half minutes fast. Chanyeol keeps doing the math in his head—calculating exactly what he could be doing, where he was. He makes bets. He'll be here in fifteen minutes. Twenty. 

He dozes off. 

Tao comes home at 3:30, smelling like alcohol and cigarettes and cologne that doesn't belong to him. His eyes are bright, glassy, ringed with smudged eyeliner, his mouth very red. Chanyeol nearly tumbles off the couch in surprise as he flicks on the light switch and stands in the hall, blinking. 

"Jesus. There you are." 

"Worried? That's not like you." Tao raises an eyebrow, kicks off his shoes at the door. He wavers a little and Chanyeol puts his hands out to steady him. 

"You're drunk." 

"Is there a problem?" 

"Where have you been?" 

"Does it matter? I was out." 

"Tao." 

"What?" He reaches out, tugs at the buckle on Chanyeol's belt. Chanyeol responds with a swift smack to his knuckles that rings brightly in the quiet of the apartment. Tao laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "I figured you'd want me gone. Since this isn't working. Since you've officially made me the first mistake the machine's ever made." 

"Were you with someone else?" 

Tao looks through his bangs, obstinate. His mouth is small, pressed into a firm line. "Yes." 

Chanyeol isn't expecting his stomach to clench the way it does, doesn't expect to pull his hands away, stinging with disappointment. Tao almost smiles. 

"I'm supposed to sit around here and listen to you talk to me about how I'm not enough for you?" He shakes his head in disgust. "Maybe I should have let him fuck me. He wanted to. He kept telling me what he was going to do to me if I went home with him." 

Chanyeol licks his lips. "Why didn't you, then?" 

"Because I wanted to come home to you, you _ass_." 

They end up in the bedroom. Chanyeol isn't even sure what's going on—it's not foreplay, at least not like any foreplay he ever experienced with Heejin. It feels almost like fighting—there's a lot of shoving in between the kissing. Tao yanks at Chanyeol's shirt and he slaps his hands away angrily, pushing back him on the bed. He's pissed off, but he can't quite place the source of the anger. He's mad about where he is right now, he's mad about the machine and Heejin and Tao and the direction his life has been tumbling in ever since he turned twenty. He's mad that he waited up so long and he's _pissed as hell_ that Tao smells like someone else even though he's never once thought about it before this very moment. 

But Tao. Tao's broken something inside of him, he thinks, his hand caressing the side of his face as he lays supine against the comforter, eyes gentle, gaze trained on Chanyeol. He's passive now, hands gone quiet, blinking quietly at him, waiting for him to decide what to do next. He's in control. It's up to him. 

He looks at the eyeliner, the structure of his face, his lips, parted slightly against gleaming teeth and thinks— _fuck, he's beautiful right now._ He thinks, _I want him._ He thinks, _why, why, why, Zitao, why, why did it have to be you?_ and _I don't know if wanting him is the same as wanting him to stay_. 

Tao reaches out for his belt buckle again and he pushes him violently away, hand wrapped around his chin. He overbalances, knee jamming between Tao's legs for stability and he feels it—Tao's hard. He likes this. Chanyeol contemplates this for a moment, his tongue tracing his bottom lip as he lets Tao's hands explore up his thigh, tug at the belt a third time, lets him unbuckle it this time. 

Before he realizes what he's doing, he's crushing their mouths together, fingers still wrapped tightly around Tao's throat, feels him struggle slightly to swallow and breathe, pulse hammering against his fingertips. He bucks his hips up, grinding himself into Chanyeol's knee, tiny whimpering noises punctuating his movements. Chanyeol releases his throat only to grab hold of his hair, yanking his head back roughly to run his teeth down the column of his neck, leaving a string of bruises in their wake. 

Tao hangs desperately to the nape of Chanyeol's neck, fingers wound tightly through the blonde waves, pulling him closer. "Please," he begs. "Please." 

He's so angry. He's angry that Tao dares to even ask. He's angry that this happened to him, that his stomach is on fire with something he can't define, that he can't stop _kissing_ him, so _fucking_ angry— _why would I fucking call your name?_ he thinks. _Why would I want you?_

He sits back, chest heaving with panic so deeply that his ribs hurt with each exhale. "I—" 

Suddenly there's a pair of hands cupping his face, thumbs tracing the slope of his nose, mouth grazing the bridge of his nose tenderly. 

"It's okay," Tao murmurs, stroking his cheeks. "Just don't. Don't, I know you don't want to." 

Chanyeol locks himself in the bathroom that night and curls up on the floor, head resting in the crook of his elbow, lulled by the sound of Tao drumming against the thin wood: _"Chanyeol. Are you okay? Talk to me."_

He doesn't know. 

He sleeps, but fitfully. 

☆☆☆

The drive over to the Center the next morning is a tense one. Tao keeps his hands pressed between his thighs, stealing glances over at Chanyeol, who grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. The receptionist seems surprised to see them, spends an inordinate amount of time talking to someone over the phone before she hangs it up and nods. 

"We'll be with you soon. You know how this goes," she laughs, a nervous, horsey sound that peters out into nothing. She excuses herself into a back room and Tao sits at the far end of the waiting room to chew on his lips anxiously. Chanyeol lowers himself into the seat next to him. The longest minute of Chanyeol's life passes before he feels compelled to say something, anything, to break the silence. 

"Tao, it's just—I think—I've got an idea of what love's supposed to be like, and I don't see it—I don't feel—this isn't how it felt," he finishes lamely. 

"You think I don't know? You think I was alone that whole time, waiting for my number to be called?" His shoulders collapse together, almost birdlike in the way they arch upwards and away from the rest of his body. 

Chanyeol is taken aback. He's never considered it—thinks back to the day he first saw Tao, slouched in the waiting room chair, the epitome of nonchalance with that fucking bright smile crookedly draped across his lips as he proffered a handshake and Chanyeol had thought _innocent_ ; thought _untouched_. 

"I didn't—" 

"You never asked." 

"But I told you about her." 

"I left him in my past." 

Chanyeol sighs angrily through his nose. "I'm not—you know—it would have been nice to know I wasn't alone in this." 

"You're not. You never were." 

"I know that now." 

"No, even if I hadn't loved someone before, you were never alone." 

Chanyeol opens his mouth to say something, but there's absolutely nothing there except the weak impulse to shake his head and press his fist up against his forehead. 

"His name was Yifan," Tao says, so softly that Chanyeol almost misses it. He doesn't continue; doesn't have to—Chanyeol understands. He's been there, been living it. 

"I know," he murmurs. 

Chanyeol isn't aware he decides to hold Tao's hand until their wrists knock awkwardly when Tao brings the tangle of intertwined fingers into his lap and holds it there. 

Tao leans his head on Chanyeol's shoulder and for the first time, Chanyeol doesn't shrug him off, just sits there, staring out the window at the people bustling on the streets. A few of them squint in curiously as they pass, probably recalling their own experience sitting in these very chairs. He wonders if they've gone through this, if their match wasn't what they were expecting. He wonders if he was expecting too much. He wonders if he was expecting too little. 

"Park Chanyeol?" A wispy voice breaks through the haze and he jerks his head upward, dislodging Tao's chin from its perch. "We're ready for you now." The receptionist flips through a few papers on her clipboard but it's mostly for show; she's very familiar with the situation. "Huang Zitao? We can take you, too." 

Tao's hand catches Chanyeol's elbow. It's warm, fingers tight as they squeeze his final plea. "Don't go. Once you go through the screening—you've got an obligation to someone else," he quavers, eyes rimmed red. "I don't—I don't want to do this, not again." 

The receptionist clears her throat and pretends to be interested in her paperwork. 

Chanyeol extricates himself from Tao's grasp, one finger at a time. "Aren't you curious? Don't you want to know who your soulmate is _supposed_ to be? Wouldn't you rather know your options?" 

"No. That's the whole point of this in the first place." 

"Tao," Chanyeol says softly. "Please." 

Tao watches him sullenly for a moment, eyes dark. "I guess I don't really have a choice, do I?" 

The questionnaire's the same one Chanyeol's filled out forty-nine times before. He takes care with it during his fiftieth pass, thinks about the time he's spent filling these out as he taps the pen against his lower lip, wonders if anyone holds a record for it because he's got to be getting pretty close, but hopefully—hopefully this is it, this is the last time. 

He changes one answer. _The most important thing in a relationship is:_ —he used to fill in _love_ , bold swoops of ink, zealously going outside the lines into the next question. This time he considers it and chooses _mutual understanding and common ground._ He fills in the bubble neatly, no stray ink. He hopes it's enough. 

The computer's still processing his results when Heejin pokes her head around the door and whispers his name. 

"How's Tao?" she asks. 

He doesn't need to answer her. She knows. 

"Well," she says softly. "I hope you both find what you're looking for." 

The steady hum of the computer drops into silence as it finishes the printout. Heejin frowns when she makes hesitant eye contact with the assistant, who inclines her head quizzically as she skims the results. 

"I'll leave you to it." The door clicks loudly behind her. 

Chanyeol puts his head in his hands, listening to the tick of the clock on the wall, the rustle of paper. The assistant pushes the card across the table. 

"Congratulations," she says impassively. "You've been matched." 

He doesn't stir. He feels ill; throat dry, hands clammy and quivering. He doesn't trust himself not to vomit or cry or maybe both. It feels like hysteria's replaced the blood in his veins, weighted down by the terror of knowing, of _not knowing_ : whose name is on that sheet? 

"Let me see the printout." 

"I'm not supposed to—" 

"Give it to me." 

She slides it into his outstretched fingers. His tongue feels heavy as it runs along his teeth, too thick to swallow against the metallic taste pooling in his cheeks. He can barely decipher the text on the page—columns of numbers, shorthand, glimpses of answers he remembers giving. He spies _mutual understanding_ in red ink. 

"Where—what am I looking for?" 

She taps a finger from underneath and he follows her gesture to a name that makes his stomach twinge, frantic with an emotion he hasn't felt in a very long time. 

_Match: Huang Zitao._

He doesn't realize he's crying until she's dropping a box of tissues onto his knees. "We'll re-screen next month," she placates. "Maybe it'll change." 

He laughs, a vacant, booming chuckle tinged with relief at the edges. He doesn't bother wiping his face. "Is that likely?" 

She hesitates. "I—don't know. We've never done a re-screening when both members of the previous match were still alive." 

After, he sits in the examination room for so long that Heejin comes back in to check on him. She finds him staring at the box of tissues, the printout still clutched in his fist. 

"Oh, Chanyeol," she says quietly. "I'm sorry, I know this wasn't what you wanted." 

He jerks under her touch. "I'm—what do I do, Heejin?" he asks hoarsely. "I don't know how to do this. Not with him." 

"For now, just take him home." She leans over him, drapes her arms over his shoulders and rests her chin on the crown of his head. "He's just as confused as you are, Chanyeol. I can't tell you how to do this. Nobody can—you two have to figure this out together." 

He laughs hollowly. "I live in a one-bedroom apartment, Heejin. He's been sleeping on the couch for months." His breath rattles in his chest when he inhales. "I don't think we can keep doing this, you know, indefinitely." 

"Then start with that." She draws back, allowing her forearms to rest against his shoulders. "Maybe you guys need to get a new place." 

"God. This wasn't what I wanted." He closes his eyes. "Heejin. I need you to be honest with me." 

"I always am," she says. He knows. 

"Is it ever going to change?" 

She squeezes his shoulder and drops her hands to her side and he knows her well enough to read inbetween the lines: _No._

"You're going to have to walk me through this," he says gruffly. "I don't—know—how to be with someone that isn't you." 

She smiles and takes hold of his elbow, persuades him to stand. "I'm here if you need me, Chanyeol, but I think you'll do just fine." 

Tao's waiting for Chanyeol outside when he finally gets up the courage to leave, arms wrapped around his body in an anxious embrace of self-comfort. Chanyeol can barely look at him as he paces a tight figure eight in front of him, trying to figure out what to tell him that doesn't sound crazy. 

"Look. I think I need to move," he starts and Tao's crestfallen face makes him talk faster, babbling: "You're always under my feet and it's annoying. I want my space back." 

"Chanyeol." 

"I don't mean, like. Away from you. Necessarily." 

Tao's eyes widen in surprise. "I—" 

Chanyeol barrels on. "I don't know why it's you. I didn't—I didn't want it to be you, but now I'm just." He swallows hard. "I'm curious." He clenches and unclenches his fists down by his side, unable to touch him even though it crosses his mind that it might be the most appropriate thing to do. "I don't know how this is going to work out, but I want to know why it's always you." 

" _Chanyeol_ —" Tao says, reaching out for him. Chanyeol lets him fold underneath his arms although he still can't bring himself to pat Tao on the back, to console him even though he's _crying_ (why is he always crying?) because it's still too much for him to handle. He holds his hands out to the side, stiffly, waiting for Tao to stop. 

"A two-bedroom," Chanyeol says. "You can't sleep with me, but you're not sleeping on the couch anymore." 

Tao nods. 

"And I don't—I don't want you coming in anymore. Even—I just need to figure that part out by myself first, okay? I'm not—I _wasn't_ —I just—you can't." 

"It's okay," Tao gurgles, tugging on Chanyeol's sleeve to get him to stop talking. "I won't push you anymore. I'm _sorry_." 

"Fine. I'm—you need to help me out, though, Tao," Chanyeol says softly. He sees Heejin move in the window of the Center and angles his body away. He doesn't want to see her right now because he's so close to losing his nerve and running away. He's not brave enough for this. "This is uncharted territory for me." 

"Okay," Tao says. "I will." 

When Tao reaches for his hand, Chanyeol doesn't slap it away. 

"This is fine," Tao murmurs encouragingly, squeezing Chanyeol's palm. "This is how it starts." 

☆☆☆


End file.
